Picking up where I left off from Part II of this series, once I saw the storm rolling in on the radar, I tied my tent down, gathered what I could, and tucked it under a tarp.

Then, I sat by the shore and watched the wall of rain creep across the greatest lake toward me.

I had “tested” my tent’s resilience to rain by setting it up and spraying it with a water hose before I had left home. Not a NASAlevel experiment, but sufficient I thought.

Unfortunately, I was wrong. When the drizzle started, I retreated into town, did a load of laundry and rode out the worst of it at a local bar. Laptop open, with a whiskey on the table, I started writing these very columns. By the time I headed back, the rain had eased.

Once settled at camp, the sound of it tapping the tent was almost soothing — until I felt the cold dripdrip through the seams. I woke up damp and wrapped in soggy blankets, but luckily, the next day was warm and sunny. I laid everything out, held down with rocks and logs to dry, then set off for more adventures.

Lake Superior is notorious for swallowing ships, but thanks to its icy waters, many wrecks are still preserved.

I took a two-hour, glass bottom boat tour and got a fascinating history lesson on the many shipwrecks off of Grand Island — and I got to see the wreckage.

After the tour, I went to a couple of souvenir shops. I grabbed a map of all the waterfalls in the area and I spent the rest of the day driving around hunting them down. Out of the 14 waterfalls on the map, I hit six that day alone. The remainder, all but three of them, I had seen on hikes.

By the time I returned to camp, my supplies had dried, and I cooked dinner knowing the next day would be my “grand finale.”

That finale? A night in a remote cabin on Grand Island. The plan was simple, a 5-mile hike five in, carrying only what I needed. I packed two books I hadn’t opened yet, a deck of cards, a bag of Wavy Funyun chips, a blanket, flashlights, some snacks and — because I suddenly believed I’d guzzle two liters of water in one night — an overstuffed water bladder.

At the ferry station, I met the owner of the cabin, who also happened to be my ferry boat captain. He warned me that the heat in my reserved cabin was questionable.

He’d check while I hiked in, and if it didn’t work, he’d meet me on the trail and redirect me to another one. He had two cabins. The one I chose was 5 miles in, but the other was just 1.5 miles in.

The island was…silent. Different from my solo camping days on the mainland. About a mile in, the weight of that silence hit me.

I’m really out here — alone. There was no way back until morning. Cue the bear paranoia. This time, at least, I knew exactly which pocket my spray and bear horn were in, and I had a white-knuckle grip on it.

I saw a couple of snakes, a couple of squirrels and chipmunks, but all in all, it was a peaceful and quiet hike.

At about mile four, I heard the side-by-side coming towards me. It was the owner who said I’d have to stay in the cabin I passed 3 miles ago. I said, “Deal, but you have to drive me.” He did, and handed me proper bug spray along the way because I was complaining about the bugs.

Once we got to the cabin, and he walked me in.

The cabin itself was perfect in a rugged way. It had propane heat, a screened porch, log walls, bunkbeds and a little beach down the trail. As he showed me around, we talked about bears and firewood, then about why I was out here alone.

I gave my usual answer. I wanted to prove I could. To think. To journal. To push myself past limits and test my bravery. All true. But he tilted his head and looked at me like he saw through it.

But, he didn’t push me, he just started to tell me his story. He told me how he had gotten sober and found the same “travel/adventure bug” inside of him. He traveled to Mexico and Alaska regularly and even bought a home in Alaska.

Eventually, I confessed that I was feeling a bit guilty because I have such a wonderful life, and here I was far away from my family and business trying to prove something to myself. And to be honest, I wasn’t sure what it even was.

After about an hour or so of chatting he said he should be on his way. But, he left me with a task and a bit of advice.

He said, don’t try to fill the quiet, just enjoy the peace and comfort of being alone. Sometimes that is just what people need. Then he said, it’s OK to be selfish. That was something he had to learn for himself. It’s ok to do something just for you, and it’s OK to disrupt the “normal” in your life.

Then, he left for the night and promised to pick me up at the dock in the morning.

I walked down to the private little cove beach. Breathtaking.

I walked up and down the shore and into the freezing water. When I went back to the cabin, I built a fire and noticed a little stream through the forest. The thing I just couldn’t get away from was how quiet it was.

It’s a big island, and I knew there were other people out there — somewhere.

But, this was the most alone I had felt on this entire trip.

Once the sun started to set, I realized I had only one working flashlight and it was a tiny pen light.

I started to look around and found another flashlight on a shelf…but it was dull.

The darker it got, the more scared I got. I laid there holding onto that light for dear life, not daring to shine it in the far corner of the room. That is where every one of the scary scenes from every horror movie I had ever watched tends to manifest.

I swear, I counted the minutes until sunrise.

I made it back to the dock, where I waited for the ferry. When the ferry came, the owner asked how I liked it. I told him I’d never been so scared in my life. He laughed at me and said, “I told you to enjoy it.”

I said I would love to come back with my family or some friends. But I am not going back out there alone.

I loaded up my car, and after a shower at my original camp, I hit the road to make it back to my family.

I had pictures, videos, and so many stories to share with them.

And I was overdue for about a million hugs and kisses.

On the drive, I thought about how I could have big adventures like this every year, but also how I could have adventures in my own community. That is exactly what I figured out when I got home. Lake Superior had pushed me, but my next chapter wouldn’t be written on a distant shoreline. It would be on familiar ground, where the trails I thought I knew by heart suddenly felt mystical, but dangerous.

And I thought a lot about what my new friend had taught me, because that is what TroutMom’s advice is this week.

TroutMom says, “It’s okay to be selfish. It’s ok to do something just for you, and it’s OK to disrupt the ‘normal’ in your life. But, remember to enjoy the peace and quiet of being alone as much as you enjoy the hugs and kisses and every chaotic moment of your wonderful life.”

Jordan Troutman is
the Owner and General Manager of the Cassville Democrat, president of the Ozark Press Association, a wife, a mother of two daughters and a graduate of Capella University with a Bachelor’s in General Psychology. She is pursuing a Master’s in Marriage and Family Therapy. She may be reached at jtroutman@cassville- democrat.com.